


The Shadows That Haunt

by Thatoneguyyoudidntknowfromtumblr



Series: Shadows [3]
Category: Transformers Generation One
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Grief/Mourning, Original Character Death(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-03
Updated: 2015-07-03
Packaged: 2018-04-07 10:02:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4259157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thatoneguyyoudidntknowfromtumblr/pseuds/Thatoneguyyoudidntknowfromtumblr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Losing the one thing that matters most is never easy, particularly in war.</p><p>**</p><p>The third part of the Shadows series.  Written in 2008.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

He needed to see him every now and again, just to keep his sanity. Nothing else eased him like being around the old mech, being the one place that truly felt like _home_. He didn't have to pretend, here. He didn't have to be something he wasn't. Abandoning all pretenses of dignity Jazz gleefully bounded up the steps to Forte's modest home like the youngster he was and gave into the urge to pound on the door, though he kept his pounding rhythmical so the old mech would know who it was. In moments, Forte would open the door and Jazz would feel the weight of his world lift from his shoulders as he stepped through...

The door didn't open. Jazz glanced upward at the light over the door, though he knew Forte left the lights on even when he wasn't home. The old mech was well off and could afford the cost of the minor power drain. No movement inside. His smile fading, Jazz tapped the door again in the same rhythm, hoping his friend hadn't chosen today to go out.

Footsteps finally sounded from within and Jazz straitened, relaxing. "Impatient youngster," Forte was saying as he opened the door, smiling at the way his young friend's expression brightened upon seeing him. "I was in the back workroom."

"I'm just glad you're home," Jazz told him cheerfully, stepping inside at Forte's invitation. "Thank you. I was worried we'd missed each other for a bit, there."

The old mech gave a soft, hoarse laugh, though Jazz noticed it wasn't nearly as hoarse as the last time he had spoken with him. "I remember when we almost did. You didn't notice me walking toward you on the street you were so upset. It is good to see you, son."

"I've news," Jazz said as he went to get them both energon. "But that'll have to wait. You sound much better than last time," he paused and turned to face his friend, frowning. "And your energon store is low. What are you up to?"

"Is it? I will have to go get some, then. I heard over the waves that the price has raised again, hasn't it?"

"It's gettin' more an' more scarce an' you didn't answer my question."

"That is because the project I am working on is a surprise," Forte replied mildly.

"You're composing again?" Jazz asked eagerly, crossing the room to sit next to him and offer the energon.

"In a way. Tell me your news."

"Prowl got promoted," Jazz said, taking a swallow of his ration. "He's head of the tactics core, now."

"Which also means he's second in command. Yes, I had heard the young new Prime was making changes to the command structure." Forte leaned back and took a polite sip of the low-grade. I also heard that he appointed a new head of special operations, though of course no one knows who the mech is. Do you trust him?"

"I kinda have to," Jazz replied with a bit of a grin.

"You didn't trust Axel," Forte said mildly, taking another sip of his energon.

"This's different, believe me," Jazz said. He glanced around, out of reflex, before leaning forward. "He's me."

Forte instantly lowered his ration and stared, his expression hard to read. "You?"

"Forte, c'mon, I can do this," Jazz murmured, giving him a slight grin again.

"That is not what I am concerned about. I have full faith in your abilities, Jazz, I am simply worried about the abruptly increased amount of danger you will be in from now on."

"As third in command or as head of special ops?" Jazz asked, before catching himself. He ducked his head sheepishly. Forte's optics widened slightly but Jazz was surprised when the older mech suddenly relaxed.

"Ah. You do understand the responsibility of the new position."

"I do," Jazz confirmed. "Don't worry. I'm not plannin' on jumpin' into any smelters."

"Good," Forte chuckled, raising a hand to place on Jazz's shoulder and squeezing gently. "I would hate for something to happen to you."

"I'll be around for a while yet," Jazz told him, grinning. "You don't get rid of Jazz that easy."

They talked until late, though Jazz was unable to work any information on Forte's project out of the old mech. They both knew he wouldn't ply his trade to try; it was an accepted agreement between them. They respected each other. The young agent slept in his old room and woke to the sounds of Forte moving about, listening to one of his favorite orchestras. Smiling and relaxed, Jazz pushed himself off of the berth and trotted into the front room to greet Forte.

"Good morning!" He said, taking the tray of energon from the old mech's hands and putting it on the table in a graceful move.

"Good morning indeed. You look like you recharged well," Forte returned, sitting with a smile.

"I've never met a berth that felt better," Jazz agreed, serving both of them before settling into his own seat. "Will this project of yours be finished soon?"

"Even sooner if you stop asking so much," the old mech chuckled. "In a few solars. Will you still be in town, then?"

"Back in," Jazz replied, leaning back in his chair and enjoying the chance to fuel up slowly. "I gotta check on someone."

"No details, I know. Keep safe out there, Jazz."

"Always." Jazz rose, moving over to place a hand on Forte's shoulder. "Always, Forte. You take care, too, please."

"Always worried," Forte admonished, though his tone was gentle. He rose to pull his foundling into an embrace. "Stop worrying. I may be old, but I can protect myself."

"I just don't want t'see anythin' happen to you," Jazz told him quietly, leaning against the taller mech.

"Nothing will happen to me," Forte vowed, smiling as Jazz returned the embrace before moving away. "Go," he added, nodding to the door. "We both have work to do. Just make sure you come back."

"I will," Jazz promised. "I will always. You're my creator, in all the ways that count."


	2. Chapter 2

Still on the so-called agent high, or the frame of mind he settled into while on a mission, Jazz instantly noticed the lights were out. He knocked again, more loudly, hoping against the growing dread in his spark that Forte was simply listening to music in the back work room and hadn't heard his first light and tired tapping.

The mission had gone well, until the end, when Jazz had caught a transmission from the Decepticons in his datanet. It was sloppily encrypted and easily decoded. A Decepticon mission in Iacon had gone badly and they hadn't been able to retrieve the target. Cheered, Jazz had commed Prowl to ask who the 'Cons had attacked. Prowl had been unaware they had, which instantly soured Jazz's mood. If Prowl hadn't known about the failed hit, it meant the target was neutral or civilian.

The lights in Forte's home were out and he was not answering his door.

Still, Jazz waited. He tapped a third time. When no answer came after a minute he knelt and did something he had never done before; picked Forte's lock. He had never felt the need or want to do so before, even when finding Forte absent from his home. The young mech's armor crawled with unease.

He stepped through the door, pulling it shut behind him, though he didn't reactivate the lock. Jazz knew better than to lock himself into an unknown situation. After letting his visor adjust to the dark, the young mech ghosted from room to room, picking up the details as he went, not touching anything for once. Spilled energon. A chair tipped over. Doors he had never seen open ajar.

His own room was a disaster, the berth snapped, his few possessions scattered carelessly across the floor. He absently gathered them and slipped them into his subspace pocket without a thought, then paused, wondering why he hadn't simply put them back where they belonged. Unease again slithered through his spark and he moved on, heading at last for the one room he now knew he had been avoiding since he had crossed the threshold.

Jazz stood in the doorway of the back work room, his processor refusing to believe the information his visor and olfactors were supplying. He tried to tell himself he had smelled the mech fluid from outside but knew it wasn't true; he could barely smell it now.

Slowly he lifted his wrist to activate his comm.

"Ratchet."

"Ngh...gruh...wha...who is this?" The medic sounded horrible but Jazz ignored it; it was typical of Ratchet to sound bad when first waking up.

"Jazz. Ratch, I need you."

There was a pause and Jazz opened his mouth to prompt the medic again but he spoke before the agent could. "Where are you? You sound horrible." This time Ratchet sounded wide awake.

"Forte's."

**

"Primus."

Jazz started, jerking to his feet and wheeling, one hand darting for his subspace pocket. Recognizing Ratchet behind him, he stopped, leaning into the hand the medic gently set on his shoulder. At the touch his world seemed to firm around him; he was forced to believe what he had been trying to deny since he had knelt to pick the lock.

Forte was dead.

"He was tortured for information," Jazz said, surprised at how steady his voice was.

"I don't want to think about it," Ratchet growled, moving over to kneel at the old mech's side. "I don't ever want to think about it."

"That should be my line," Jazz said, not moving from the doorway.

"I'm surprised you're being so cool about this," Ratchet replied, quietly assessing the damage and the best way to transport Forte's remains. "Primus."

"What?" Jazz asked, finally stepping into the room at Ratchet's soft tone of disbelief.

"He's smiling. My sensors keep twitching toward that wall, there." The medic pointed.

"Why's he smiling?" Jazz wondered, ghosting over to the wall Ratchet had indicated and running his fingertips along the surface.

"Slag if I know," Ratchet muttered. "Crazy old mech."

About to turn and snap off at Ratchet, Jazz froze when sensitive fingertips found a crack in the apparently seamless wall. He worked fragile tools meant for picking locks into the crack and pushed it wide enough for his fingers to take over the work. It was open a hand's breadth when his visor reported movement more than shadows would cause on the other side. He stepped between the crack and Ratchet. The medic, well used to combat situations, froze, letting Jazz protect him.

"Life sign," he whispered. Jazz gave a minuscule nod and his hand flattened, fingers to the ground and palm toward Ratchet. The gesture meant stay. Ratchet wasn't about to argue.

The agent unspaced his gun, keeping it low and behind him as he slipped his free hand into the crack, pulling the door open slowly. The gun vanished as soon as he saw what was moving in the small space hidden by the false wall; a minibot.

"Hey," he murmured, frowning as he held his hand out, "who're you?"

The little silver bot skittered away from his hand, optics large with fear. It didn't make a sound, peeking out at Ratchet and Jazz, slim arms wrapped around slim legs. The alt, Jazz could see, was a hovercycle, simply from the way the wheels were jutting up like doorwings from the little bot's shoulders.

"Ratchet," Jazz murmured softly, subspacing his gun as he knelt on one knee, hand still stretched out. "C'mere."

"I can see," Ratchet replied, just as quietly. "The spark readings aren't more'n an two hours old. This femme's a sparklet."

"Hey hon," Jazz crooned, purring his engine in a soothing manner, "Hey, shhh. C'mere. No one's gonna hurt'cha."

She edged forward inch by inch until Jazz was able to place a gentle hand on her helm. "Easy," he murmured with a soft smile. She looked up at him, blinking pale blue optics which were large by design, Jazz now saw, before pressing close to his side, peeking out at Forte.

"They kep' askin' 'im where it was," she whispered, her voice a joy to listen to. Jazz wrapped an arm around her shoulders to shelter her. "Wha'd 'ey want? They kep' shootin' an' shootin'!"

"They're gone," Jazz assured her, "they're not comin' back."

"He said...he said everythin'd be okay," she continued, still in a whisper. "Why won't he get up? Forte!"

Jazz gave a slight shudder; her soft, chiming voice was echoing what his spark kept screaming. He bowed his head slightly, fighting not to lose his composure.

"I'll get the body outta here," Ratchet said via internal comm to Jazz, causing him to start. He'd forgotten the medic was there. "You stay with her."

"She saw the whole thing," he replied the same way, cradling her close.

"So I heard. Get her out of here, Jazz, she doesn't need to keep seein' this."

"Who're you?" The little silver mini asked, gazing up at Jazz as he lifted her into his arms.

"I'm Jazz," he told her, smiling. He stood and carried her into the only room in the dwelling that hadn't been disturbed; the washrack. He turned it on absently, making sure the stream wasn't too warm for the sparklet before stepping in and just letting the chemicals coat him.

"Did you know Forte?" She pressed, holding her hands up and watching as the drops of fluid pattered down. The longer they talked, the better she was able to speak, obviously learning from listening to him. He dropped his accent and began to annunciate clearly, so she would know what the words really sounded like, instead of the casual forms he typically used.

"I knew him," Jazz agreed, smiling a bit as he watched her. "He is...was...kind of my creator, in every way that counted."

"Mine, too," she said, brightening a bit as she turned to look at him. "Does that mean you're my brother?"

"Suppose I am," Jazz said, picking up a soft cloth and gently cleaning them both off. The little femme had mech fluid splattered on her form in some places, though she obviously didn't know about it.

"Do you know my name, then?" She asked, blinking up at him. Jazz frowned, pausing in his work.

"He didn't tell you?"

She shook her head. "No," she said, looking down. "He said he would after he told the mechs at the door to go away. He put me in there and they came in--"

"Shh," Jazz soothed, turning off the washrack and beginning to dry her gently. "I know it from there." When they were both dry he carried her to the front room, settling her on the couch and offering some energon. His own tanks were in knots, so he decided against having any himself. "Just rest, sweetspark. You're safe."

"Okay," she agreed, curling up with the energon.

"What'm I gonna do with her?" Jazz asked Ratchet over his internal comm. "I can't take care of a sparklet!"

"You're doin' a damn good job already," the medic tossed back. "But I know what you mean. Your life ain't nearly stable enough t'be able t'give her what she needs...and Iacon is hardly the place to raise a sparklet these days." The medic descended into a thoughtful silence, during which the sparklet finished her energon and curled drowsily in Jazz's lap.

"Shh," he murmured, rubbing her back gently.

"I suggest taking her to the minobot core on base. It's not perfect but it's better than most else that's out there. She's far too young to join the other femmes...not that I approve of the separating of the two factions anyway."

"I'll do that then," Jazz murmured, giving a soft sigh.

"Are you gonna be okay, mech?" Ratchet asked, the frown clear in his voice.

"I see stuff like this every day," Jazz replied quietly, watching the small femme drift into recharge. "She's recharging."

"Not like this you don't. I know how much Forte meant to you. In fact, after you've dropped her off, come by my place. I don't want you being alone right now, much less go off on some mission."

"Thanks, Ratch."

**

Forte's body had already been moved by the time the little femme woke. Already she was doing better-- in fact, she didn't seem to remember what she had seen before at all. She was sprightly and cheerful, climbing down and moving around the room curiously, picking things up as her processor identified them for the first time.

"You're as quick as a little turbo-fox steeplechase," Jazz commented with a soft chuckle, watching her.

"I like that word," she chirped, turning to face him with her hands twined behind her back.

"Which one?" Jazz asked. They both looked up as someone stepped into the room, Jazz relaxing when he saw it was just Ratchet. The medic shook his head at both of them.

"Have a good nap?" He asked the femme, lowering himself onto one knee to be more on her level.

"I did," she agreed, trotting over fearlessly. "You're Ratchet!"

"Yes, I am," he said, smiling. "I'm a medic and I'm gonna scan you to make sure you're not hurt. It's what medics do. I need you to stand very still."

"Okay!" She stood stock still, watching him with those large, bright optics of hers.

"Have you figured out a name yet?" Ratchet asked Jazz. Before he could answer, however, the little silver mini spoke up.

"Yeah!" She gave a brilliant grin, straightening proudly. "I'm Steeplechase!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Forte and Steeplechase belong to http://raccoonmama.tumblr.com


End file.
